Dividing Division
by kasviel
Summary: Slash. BDSM. Percy/Roan. Prequel detailing the origin of the Cleaners at Division.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes**

This is a prequel story to the CW's show "Nikita". It involves the early days of Division, it's shift into real power and those involved with that shift: Percy, Carla, and newly-appointed Amanda. Roan is a particularly difficult recruit, but will an unexpected streak of favoritism find him a place in Division? The story of how the Cleaner division was started in the first place. It's a slash story containing BDSM and some strong language, Percy/Roan.

* * *

**1. Therapy**

Carla Bennett tapped her pen against her desk in a steady rhythm. She thought it might be tapping out the beat of some stupid new song she had heard on the radio, but she wasn't sure. The inability to place the simplistic tune frustrated her: she was sick of uncertainty during these tenuous times.

The woman leaned back in her chair, surprised at the suppleness of the leather, the thickness of its cushioning. For all the years she had spent in office chairs during her career as a prison councilor, she had scarcely noticed the discomfort of her old seating: neither the irritatingly harsh cheap fabrics or the wafer-thin cushions worn flat by years of use. It was funny how misery was so often noticed in retrospect during idle moments of better times. Her hindsight had sharpened acutely recently.

Carla threw the pen across the chic glass-and-metal desk. It clattered and rolled to the end, fell to the plush black carpet. She stood, and paced the ultra-modern office. No matter what artwork she had put on the walls, no matter what plant she tried to keep on a file cabinet, despite the few necklaces she had left on the desk, the blazer thrown over the back of her chair, Carla still felt that this space was not her own.

She felt that it was Percy's.

Carla sighed in frustration. What was the matter with her? Yes, this operation _was _Percy's, it always had been, and what was the problem with that? Without Percy, she never would have been able to realize her full potential, her full _purpose_. When she thought about her arduous struggle to save a single mind from the decay of crime and darkness, she shuddered. How many lives had she ever really changed? How many people had she ever really saved? She could not even trust the idea that she saved the ones that seemed to listen to her: they could have regressed at any point later in their lives, and she would be none the wiser.

Percy had scraped her out of that prison where her best efforts had gone to rot. He had funded her while she learned to hone her skills, and given her no end of needing patients. She had more control over the rehabilitation of these tortured souls, growing with them as they changed their entire lives. Percy was like a father, structuring their lives with reality and discipline. Carla was the mother, nurturing them and guiding them with understanding.

Carla stopped pacing, staring at a black and white art photograph of an expansive Arizona desert and its intricately shaded skyline. Against the backdrop, a flower was sprouting out from a crack in the arid soil. Percy had bought this for her, as well. A strange thought crossed Carla's mind before she could stop it: Percy had bought her hope. Carla smiled, though something about the realization worried her.

Instead of allowing herself to mistrust the man that had given her her ultimate chance at making a difference, Carla turned her mind to a more obvious and easily accepted problem: Amanda.

If Percy was the father and Carla the mother of the program now being called 'Division', then Amanda was … What _was_ she? Carla saw her as the home-wrecking mistress: a shiny, new woman who had far too much of Percy's attention right now. She was a flash-in-the-pan, Carla thought, but one capable of using her little burst of talent and attention to blind even the aloof Percival Rhodes. Carla did not like how the woman strutted down the halls of this new headquarters of theirs, as if the expansion of Percy and Carla's program had been _her _idea. Percy swore they needed her for the heavier workload of taking on more patients (he called them 'agents' now, but Carla would always see them as her 'patients'). Carla did not see why they needed _her_ specifically; Amanda was less a psychologist and more a manipulator- of minds, of men, of anyone and anything she needed to mold to her needs.

As much as Carla saw Amanda as a kind of mistress of Division's, Percy seemed to view her as the nanny: a halfway point between Carla's soft sympathy and his own rigid strictness. _Needed _her! He refused to stop believing that they needed Amanda, going into this bold new future of the program's.

Carla shook her head. So be it. She had her reservations, but she was a professional. Percy's attention had spoiled her, she had gotten too used to being the star therapist she had always wished to be. Even with Amanda, Carla was secure in her position in the program, and she was still far better off than she ever had been. She would never be lost in the system again, an unheard voice trying to throw a feeble light on all the darkness twisting inside so many people's souls. Percy had heard her, and now her voice would reach so many, change so many …

Carla returned to her desk and rifled through her patient files. She picked up the one she needed for the next hour's session. She opened the folder and stared at the military photo of a young soldier. There was a hardness to his expression, and his dark blue eyes stared out like stone at the camera, even through his glasses. Carla thought he was handsome, though there was something, an edge or roughness perhaps, that kept him from having the usual clean cut appearance most soldiers attained in their portraits.

He looked rougher now that he was in Division. His formerly buzzed hair had grown out into a disheveled blond mess, and a golden fuzz of stubble broke across his face. The only remnants of his days as a soldier were his straight-backed posture and adeptness at remaining absolutely silent during any kind of questioning, no matter how rough or gentle. Percy was beginning to hint to Carla that this young man, twenty-two-year-old Roan, would not be right for their program. When asked, Amanda opinionated that Roan lacked finesse and polish, whatever that meant.

Carla tucked the folder under her arm. She believed that Roan was misunderstood. Anyone that guarded must be hiding a deep well of pain. If she could only get to the bottom of that well, she could toss the water out until it ran dry. It would exhaust the poor man, but the only way to conquer pain was to bring it to the surface and deal with it. The second chance he would gain would be worth the effort, and he would be the stronger for it.

Yes, Carla thought as she left her office for a glass of water before the appointment, she would prove her worth by proving this poor young man's worth. She told herself this strong resolve was coming from her concern for Roan, but deep down, she knew a part of it was stemming from the allure of having a victory over Amanda.

* * *

Roan sat stonily in the mundanely artsy therapy room that belonged to Carla Bennett. He found the entire underground facility to be irritatingly surreal: sharp steel walls, floors, straight and functional layout, cutting-edge technology, weapons, combat training, yet all those admirable features were juxtaposed with this inspirational little niche, and the even-worse insufferable elegance of Amanda's strange office/dress-up room/tea room/whatever the hell room the prissy bitch wanted it to be at the moment.

Roan was a man of simple wants and tastes. He did not for the life of him understand this place, and he hated things he did not understand. Not that he was stupid, he was actually quite intelligent, but he thought complexity was too often mistaken for quality. Sometimes, a thing was not complicated because it was special, it was just complicated for the sake of being too confusing for anyone to decipher its insignificance.

The young ex-soldier thought that Division had a lot of good qualities, but it was squandering its resources (which must have been large) on these psychology sessions. So long as a soldier functioned on the battlefield, so long as a spy got his intel, what did it fucking _matter_ what was going on in his mind? Or what the hell he looked like?

Roan scowled, shifting in the armchair as he waited for Bennett, growing more and more agitated. It was what was in his mind that caused his squad to turn on him, which had in turn caused him to open a healthy round of 'friendly fire' on all of them. The experience of watching those hypocritical bastards choke on their own blood had almost been worth the execution for treason he had come very close to being put to.

That man, Rhodes, who insisted on being called 'Percy', even by grunts, had come to him in the military prison where he was being held. Roan had been amazed that anyone was able to contact him at all, and then baffled as to why someone as important and respected as Percy seemed would bother to. When the man spoke, a hope that Roan had never known had stirred in his usually unaffected heart.

Percy told him that he would take him off death row and out of military prison. He told him that he would take care of everything that had happened, not only in the Middle East, but at any point in Roan's troubled young life. The world would think that the demonized example of everything wrong with the military had been executed, when in fact he would be spirited away to an underground non-existence. In exchange, all Percy wanted was his service and his loyalty.

As ludicrous as it all sounded, Roan had never once doubted Percy's sincerity. Roan was highly adept at seeing through bullshit, and he saw that Percy was direct, earnest. Though he outwardly remained wary, Roan felt gratitude and relief. He appreciated Percy in a way he had never experienced with anyone before. The man had erased his dark life, and saved it at the same time. It was a Faustian miracle.

He had agreed to join the man's covert operation, this 'Division' thing. He was slightly resentful about continuing to work for a government that had been about to send him to death, but Percy assured him that Division was different from the rest of the bureaucratic and military machine, though he refused to explain exactly how.

Now, Roan felt abandoned. The training was excellent, but these psychology sessions were superfluous. He could not understand what his mental state had to do with being an agent of Division. He could not understand why Amanda kept trying to have his hair clipped into some style. He barely even saw Percy anymore, and when he did, he kept getting the impression that he was failing him somehow. This annoyed him, but worse … it disappointed him. He wanted to please the man that had saved him. The fact that he felt this way further disturbed him.

The door opened, shaking Roan from his thoughts, though his expression did not change. He turned his face just slightly and looked up. Carla Bennett had come in, with her insipidly warm smile. He hated how _nice _she was. He never trusted 'nice' people, they made no sense; human nature was not nice, and anyone making that pretense had to have some ulterior motive for it.

"Good afternoon, Roan," Carla said with that smile broadening to show her white teeth. "How are you today?"

"Fine."

"I heard you've been exceeding in your self-defense lessons-"

"Hand-to-hand combat training."

Carla's smile froze. "What?"

"They aren't suburban karate lessons," Roan informed her. "Division is teaching us hand-to-hand combat tactics, on the highest level. I passed from breaking limbs to snapping necks today."

Carla maintained at least half her smile, shaking her head. She had taken issue with the excessive violence training the young agents all received, but Percy assured her that these kids would be put into very dangerous situations, and had to be able to defend themselves against anything. _'The flags of freedom never fly unstained,' _he often said. (Carla did not know it, but Percy had made it a joke to use her love of obvious metaphors and symbolism sardonically).

"You must find comfort in the idea of being able to defend yourself adequately," Carla said. She opened the folder and rifled through papers. "Though it seems you've always been quite capable of that. You spent the handful of days you spent in school getting into fistfights with the other boys."

Roan was nonplussed. He said nothing. Carla hesitated. She had intended to play hard ball with Roan today, to remove the kid gloves once and for all, but it was difficult for her. She drew a breath. Sometimes things had to be broken down to be built back up again, she assured herself. If Roan was thrown out of this program, he would be broken down all right, by the system that had almost killed him in the first place.

"Tell me," Carla said, "do you always feel the need to defend yourself?"

Roan did not answer.

"Is this feeling of persecution by the world that leads you to attack so often the result of your mother's disapproval of you?"

Roan bristled inwardly, but gave no obvious sign. His face had gone blank. Carla felt her hopes sinking. Soldiers were able to shut down, she knew, and if they were as good at it as Roan was, it took more than she could ever give to break them.

"Your mother was a paranoid schizophrenic, Roan," Carla said softly, trying to kill him with kindness, so to speak. "She thought you were something that does not exist, because she was afraid of the maternal love you symbolized for her. So, she made you into a fantasy that deserved no love, nothing but hatred. She convinced herself that you were a monster, to escape her responsibilities to you. She was not weak, she simply was incapable of dealing with the reality of having to raise a child alone."

Roan's eyes narrowed slightly. Hatred burned through every molecule of his being. He wanted to take this woman who thought she knew him so well and cut her throat from ear to ear. He wanted to cut every finger and toe off, one by one, and hear her scream with all the pain she was trying to scratch out of him.

If only the bitch knew, Roan thought with a bitter mental laugh. If only she knew the truth: that he _was _a monster. The sympathy would be gone from those soulful brown eyes of hers, and that light of compassion would go out. He almost opened his mouth and told her the truth right there, just to see that look on her face: the slow dawning of terror.

That had been the look his fellow marines had given him when he gunned down those civilians. There had been a flicker of it in their eyes before that, when he had tortured a stray dog to death, but it had been nothing compared to the expression on their faces when his bullets had sprayed that crowd, women screaming and children choking tiny last gurgles before they hit the ground.

Before the end, his squad had those looks on their faces, but in the extremest form. It had almost been a caricature of horror. Roan would never forget that moment: it was his most cherished memory.

"You are not a monster," Carla said, completely unaware of Roan's thoughts. "Perhaps you felt that you had to make yourself one to justify your mother's attitude towards you. Perhaps you've always felt that everyone sees you the way your mother saw you, and so you react accordingly."

Roan's fist clenched. Carla could see his skin reddening, and the line of his jaw going taut. For the first time, she felt a thrill of fear. The handsomeness fell away, and she saw more the cruel fury warping the young man's features. She forced these feelings away, telling herself Roan was merely putting up walls to protect himself.

"Did you feel that your fellow soldiers saw you as the monster your mother did?" Carla asked. "Did they treat you differently, Roan? Did they frighten you?"

"No," Roan finally replied. His voice was low, dangerously quiet. "_I _frightened _them_."

Carla leaned forward in her chair. "Why did you frighten them, Roan?"

"Because they weren't idiots like you!" Roan snapped, finally losing his cool. He got to his feet, and he was tall. "They knew enough to be afraid, you stupid bitch."

Carla also stood, though her legs felt stiff. "Now, Roan-"

Roan grabbed her in a fast motion, walked her backwards until her back hit a wall. He held her there, elated by the terror on her face. Where was all her sympathy now?

Carla stared into those eyes, and she saw no pain there, only joy. It must be her fear. It had to be. Nonetheless, her hand reached into her pocket, and she pressed the security button sewn into its lining.

"I'm not afraid of you, Roan," she forced herself to say. "I'm not afraid of you, because you're a man, not a monster. Do you understand me?"

Roan sneered, his arm thrusting up against her delicate neck. He was on the verge of crushing her windpipe when the doors opened and guards rushed in. He turned on them, ready to fight, but decided against it: that would be the last straw with Percy, and the thought stayed him. He was grabbed and ushered out roughly. His face had gone emotionless again.

Carla hunched over, rubbing her throat. She assured the guards she was all right. Once she recovered, she went to the phone. She would not give up. She _**could not **_give up, even now. Her fingers dialed Percy's line.


	2. Chapter 2

**2. Discipline**

Percy sat in his office with his phone to his ear, rolling his eyes as a half-choked Carla made her case for her attacker, the young ex-soldier that was fast failing Division's less physical tests, Roan. Carla made this excuse and that, but Percy knew her real reasons. The first was that she and Amanda had never agreed on Roan's candidacy for the program, and she needed a victory over his new star psychologist. The second was that Carla had a special fixation with the handsome youth, a point Percy could understand but thought was droll. She doted on him like a mother, having no idea that Roan had abhorred his mother and would never respect any woman because of it.

Percy sighed, tuning Carla out. What Roan needed was a father. His own father had died in the service when he was four, which was why Roan had joined the Marines in the first place, at age eighteen. For a time, the discipline of the military and the male-oriented society had been enough for Roan, but eventually his killer nature and inner anger had overtaken him. The rejection of his squad, men he had seen as surrogate father and brother figures, had broken him.

Only another surrogate father, a stronger one than those sensitive pretenders had been, could put the pieces back together.

Percy gave Carla some empty assurances, and hung up. He sat considering. Up until now, he had been canceling any would-be agent that failed any of the rigorous tests, mental and physical alike. He had not thought twice about these decisions. Yet, he hesitated to cancel Roan. There was a spark of strength and cruelty in his eyes that Percy thought could be useful, if only reigned in, and he also knew Roan looked up to him.

The man smiled to himself. He was no better than Carla. She had a soft spot for Roan, and he had a soft spot for the way Roan's admiration stroked his ego. Carla was fascinated by his cruelty, Percy was impressed by it. Carla thought he was cute, Percy found him to have the allure a baby shark might have for certain violence-oriented marine biologists. Carla was drawn in by the pain he was hiding, Percy was tempted by the challenge of exposing that pain, seeing the unshakable youth flayed raw by his own buried emotions.

The door buzzed, and Percy pressed a button to unlock it. The guards came in, dragging Roan in with them, both arms restrained. Roan was unharmed, and Percy guessed he had not put up a fight, for his sake. How adorable.

Percy lifted a hand. "Leave us." The guards left, and Percy turned his gaze to Roan. He stared at the youth long and hard. "Come here."

Roan came forward, head lifted, hands behind his back. Percy almost expected a 'Yes sir!' from him. The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile, but he stifled it quickly. Roan absolutely could not know that this was all a familiar game to Percy, one that he had been playing for years. Roan had to believe he was daddy's sole naughty little boy, his center of negative attention, or he would grow resentful and rebel, forcing Percy to cancel him. And that would be a waste- if not a waste of an agent, a waste of a diversion.

Percy got to his feet, pulled his jacket closed and buttoned it. He looked coolly at the youth. The long pauses served to create tension, and they were good for the perpetually calm young man. He needed to reflect on his mistakes, worry about what was coming; it would give the punishment more impact.

"What did you do?" Percy inquired.

"It won't happen again. I didn't mean to, she just-"

"Ah!" Percy cut him off sharply, holding up a hand. "Tell me what you did. No excuses. You're too direct for that, Roan."

Roan drew a breath. Despite his mechanical exterior, he felt a sense of dread deep in his gut that was new to him. Trepidation, and … fear? Was that possible? He had gone through almost a full tour in the Middle East without feeling fear. He had been numb from childhood to adulthood, not even fearing death save for those last moments awaiting execution in the military prison. Why was this different?

"I was in therapy," Roan said tonelessly. "Carla started talking to me about my childhood. I lost my temper. I moved her up against the wall and put my arm over her neck. Security came. I didn't fight. They brought me here."

Percy nodded, paused again. He looked down, then brought his gaze back up to meet Roan's eyes. Though his face did not change, Percy could see through the youth's eyes that he was shrinking inside.

"You have a problem with institutions, don't you?" Percy said. "School, juvenile hall, even the institution of the military, you've found a way to piss your way out of all of them. And now Division?"

Roan swallowed. "It won't happen again," he repeated, more quietly. "I don't want to get out of Division. I love Division. I just can't do the psych sessions."

"Oh. Oh, you 'just can't'. Mm." Percy nodded. "Well, Roan, you should know that I 'just can't' have agents without the proper mental structure. The fate of the country's security rests upon the work Division agents will do, and the fate of Division rests upon how good we are for the country's security. Understand?"

Roan's face fell. "But sir-"

"Yes? Go on." A bit cynically, Percy added, "Speak freely, soldier."

"It's stupid," Roan blurted out. He frowned, and looked very young suddenly, like a difficult child trying to explain himself. "I am psychologically sound. You have my file, you know I had my reasons for what I did."

"Your reasons?" Percy laughed, unamused. "You terrorized your company, lost sight of your mission for the sake of personal enjoyment, and then killed your entire squad when they took issue with your little pleasure trip. You had reasons! Who cares!"

Roan's eyes widened behind the shield of his glasses.

Percy pointed at him. "Your reason for all of it, from cradle to near-grave, is that you are an animal: merciless and cruel, untamed."

Roan's hands tightened behind his back. He was almost being called a monster again, and this time it hurt. His temper began to rise inside him, as it always did when he was rejected. Percy was no longer his savior, just another double-talking old man.

"Now that natural viciousness can serve you, _**if **_you learn to control it," Percy told the youth. "But you've never had any interest in controlling it, have you? No, you relish shocking with it. It boosts your ego, it turns you on. But that killer instinct is a gift, not something to be whored out for shock value. Don't you see that?"

Roan scowled.

Percy pounded his fist on the table hard, and the sullen look vanished from Roan's face instantly. "Look at me when I'm talking to you," he said evenly, though stern. "You're a child. Without structure, you'll remain a child: a rebellious teen-man never able to use his gifts to his own benefit. It's a waste."

Roan stepped forward. "How can you say that to me?" he asked angrily. "Do you know how many people I've killed? The things I've done? How can you possibly call me a child?"

Percy's hand shot out so fast that even with his recent training, Roan was unable to avoid it. Percy's palm slapped across his cheek with spectacular force, sending his glasses flying straight off. Percy came around the desk before him.

"Because you are!" he snapped. He grabbed Roan by the front of his cement gray sweatshirt. "You are nothing but an unruly child reeling against the world in place of your parents. Well, guess what, kid?"

For once, Roan's face was devoid of its control. He gaped at Percy in shock, his cheek distinctly handprinted, his eyes actually moist. Percy's face remained harshly set, but inside, he was smiling; it felt good to take control of this one, the strongest of them all.

"Guess what?" Percy hissed again. He shook his recruit. "You want a parent to rebel against? Well, you got one. Go ahead. Rebel against me."

Roan's shock gave way to rage. He took hold of Percy's hands, which were surprisingly strong. He faltered briefly, but then his temper took over. He broke off the older man's grasp, and struck out at him. To his greater shock, Percy blocked his attack, stepping back into a defensive position. Roan hesitated. Was the old man bluffing? His movements were not those of an amateur or a pretender.

Roan picked up his glasses and put them on, never taking his eyes off Percy. Then, he returned, and tested him with a few jabs, which Percy blocked or deflected. While he was still uncertain of whether to take the fight seriously or not, Roan was jabbed in the stomach. He winced, stepping backwards.

"What?" Percy asked innocently. "Did you think daddy couldn't hold his own?"

Irritated that he had been caught off guard, Roan set his mind to the fight. He went at Percy in earnest. They traded shots, but Percy managed to get the second one in as well. Roan went in close, trying to kick his balance off while going hand-to-hand with him in a rapid succession of movements. Percy took a hit, but more than held his own.

"You go in too hot," Percy told him. He blocked a few more hits, and swiped at Roan's cheek without too much force; he didn't want the kid unrecognizable, after all. "You'll go cold fast like that. And then what?"

It was true. Roan felt the rush of his temper draining, and it was replaced by uncertainty. He made more of an effort, and lasted a while due to his talent, but finally Percy began to overtake the fight. The anger resurged, and Roan went at the Head of Division more viciously.

Percy decided it was time to end the fight before Roan got too confident and got him with a serious hit. He dodged a straight punch, and grabbed Roan's arm in both hands. He twisted it behind Roan's back so far it nearly fractured. Roan grunted in pain, and then cried out shortly in agony. Percy walked him back to the desk and slammed him face down over it. Roan struggled, but the attempts were disorganized.

"I could break it, you know," Percy told him. "If you had me in this position, I have no doubt you would snap my arm like a twig. Do you know why I am not going to break your arm, Roan?"

"Nrrghh," grunted Roan. He stopped struggling before his arm bent in the wrong way and snapped. "No."

"Because I am a man, not an animal," Percy said. "And that has nothing to do with evolution or genetics or any BS like that. It's a choice. For men like you and me, it's a discipline."

"You're nothing like me," Roan seethed. "Nothing!"

"No? What do you think I am? Hm?" Percy twisted Roan's arm so hard the man screamed and pounded his free hand on the desk. "Tell me!"

"You're a fucking bureaucrat!" Roan shouted hoarsely. "You were born rich and you'll die rich! The hell do you know about a killer instinct?"

"You stupid, stupid brat," chuckled Percy. "You don't know a goddamn thing about me."

Roan screwed his eyes shut in pain. Though he was enjoying himself, Percy felt a tinge of something other than sadism towards the youth. His eyes traveled his strained arm, which would splinter soon, and then took in the whole of him. He was impossibly hot in the man's grasp, even through their clothing Percy could feel the heat rising off of him. His neck and ears with flushed from exertion and humiliation, very bright against his pale blond hair. His strong shoulders were heaving from his deep breaths. He was nearly there, but Percy wanted more than ever to see him _break_. He wondered how vulnerability would look on that hard face of his; he had only glimpsed it after the slap, but he liked what he saw.

"I'm not some entitled heir to a seat on the Senate," Percy said, more honest than he had expected to be with this fast-failing recruit. "I came from nothing. I've had to crawl my way up, fight for every ounce of respect I get, and it's never enough. No matter what I do, I'll never be as respected as those that have done nothing but be born to the right parents."

Roan was still, listening intently. Again, he should have doubted the man, but the sincerity rang true to him.

"Do you think there weren't times when I wanted to take my weapon and spray every single one of those shitheads with its fire?" Percy asked. "Of course I did! But why didn't I?"

"Because … you're not an animal?"

"But _why_?"

Roan twisted his head around to look over his shoulder at Percy. "Because you chose not to."

"Exactly," Percy said, pleased to be getting through to the youth. He relieved the pressure he was putting on his arm just slightly. "I taught myself this discipline early on, because I saw how far it could take me. A killer instinct is a valuable tool, but it must be honed, reigned in, focused, or it's only going to turn against its wielder. That level of ruthlessness is a gift, but it sets us apart from the herd. Do you need any more allegories to spell it out for you?"

"I get it," Roan said. "I understand. But I don't know if I can hide … who I am. I thought I _was_ hiding it, by being no one, by saying nothing, but that only made it worse."

"You don't know how, because you haven't been taught." Percy released him, allowed him to stand, and then turned him so they faced one another. He took the young man's scarlet face in both hands, met his eyes. "I'll teach you. I will teach you everything I know, but you have to let me. You have to submit to the rules of Division, all of them. Can you do that?"

"I want to," Roan said, anguished, searching Percy's eyes. "I do."

Percy sighed. Roan would never be an agent, so much was clear. It broke his heart to see the pain in those eyes, the longing for a place that would accept him and give him some kind of purpose, no matter how dark. Percy knew he should cancel the kid right there, but he found that he could not. There was value in him, he found himself insisting as emphatically as Carla ever had. He simply had to find a way to use it.

Percy squeezed the youth's face, then lowered his hands to his shoulders. "Then, I may be able to make some allowances for you, if you truly mean it," he said. "But I won't waste time giving you special attention if you aren't going to change. You have to make an effort."

"I will."

"You have to try."

"I will."

"Roan, I taught myself discipline, but you aren't capable of that, are you?" Percy said, not really asking. "I can teach you, but you have to subject yourself to my lessons. Starting today."

Roan shifted on his feet, glancing down at them for just a second in a boyish manner.

Percy lowered his head to catch the youth's down-turned eyes. "You must be punished for your outburst today, and you will continue to be punished for any such action after. Can you submit to that?"

Roan looked at him for a long moment. Finally, he said, quietly but firmly, "Yes."

Percy's eyes lit, and he smiled slightly. The expression passed, though not the glint in his blue eyes. "Good. Good."

Roan stared at him uneasily as the man went around the desk. He unlocked and opened a drawer, spent a moment going through things. After a minute, he removed a long, heavy leather strap, much wider across than a standard belt. Roan frowned deeply. Was he for real?

"If you're serious, then let's begin your lessons," Percy said. "Take down your pants and briefs, then put your hands on the arms of that chair and bend over."

"What?"

"You heard me."

They stared at one another over the desk, the strap between them. Roan turned his head in a half-inquisitive, half-discerning expression.

"Oh, I'm serious," Percy answered the look. "Why so surprised? Isn't this exactly what you've been begging someone to do since your fatherless childhood? What you've been _daring _someone, anyone, to do with you? Everyone else looks at you and sees a sadistic, apathetic monster. All I see is a bitter, angry boy screaming for a father's attention."

He had come around the desk, behind Roan. He suddenly slammed him down on the desk top again, holding him there with a hand gripped tightly at the back of Roan's neck.

"Well, you have it," he said harshly. "The only question is, are you going to face it like a man? Or are you going to run away from it, like you've done your entire miserable life?"

Roan grunted, but did not struggle. His face was burning with a humiliation he had never experienced before. At the same time, a streak of admiration for the man ran through him; he had never thought there was anyone strong enough to make him feel this humility and shame. Through the muddled emotions confusing the usually cold young man, one thought above all rang clear.

"I don't want to fail this program," Roan said. He shifted, the tension leaving his body, leaving him entirely defenseless: submissive, like a wolf rolling onto its back. "I don't want you to hunt me down and put a bullet through my skull because I failed. I don't want to be 'canceled'."

Percy frowned. "What do you mean? Canceled means out of the program. Why make such dire inferences from-"

"Don't." Roan lifted himself up an inch, glanced over his shoulder at Percy. "There's a shift in cadence and tone when a person uses a term that's doublespeak for murder. Even an expert like you can't hide the inference. If you're canceled, you're killed. The world thinks we're dead already, doesn't it?"

Percy raised his eyebrows. The youth was sharp. He did not disrespect him by denying it.

"Do what you have to do," Roan said quietly. "Punish me, teach me, I don't care. Just don't cancel me."

It was a simple plea, stated without melodrama, without tears, but it was sincere. Percy smiled, relieved that Roan saved himself with his compliance. This was one troubled student, but he was prepared to give him special attention. He did not quite know why, but Percy felt there were qualities Roan possessed that would make him worth the effort.

"All right, then." Percy released Roan, trusting him to keep himself in the position. "Don't get up. Reach back and take down your pants and briefs. Go on."

Roan lifted himself up enough on his elbows to obey the command. In that moment of baring himself so fully, there was more intimacy than any sexual encounter he had ever had. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm his shaking nerves, and eased back over the desk fully. He felt ludicrously vulnerable, the office's cool air on his bare skin. His face burned with humiliation.

Percy took a moment to set aside his detached professionalism, and enjoy the benefits of being in authority. The youth had pulled his sweatpants down to just beneath the curve of the buttocks, but Percy could see the strength of his thighs, thick and taut, leading up to his rounded, ample ass. Percy smiled, looking over the smooth, pale, uninterrupted flesh beneath him, pristine before its inevitable contact with the strap. He wanted to reach out and squeeze the youth, but knew he had to maintain the illusion of respectability and purpose.

Percy gripped the strap's handle in his hand tightly. Fueled more by sexual tension than actual sternness, he was nonetheless stringent as he drew the strap back and let it crack against Roan's buttocks. The leather left an angry red stripe, three inches wide, across Roan's buttocks. The youth jumped violently, but did not make a sound.

"Impressive," Percy remarked. He swung back, and broke another whack against the young man's backside. "I would have expected more of a reaction from a man that's never even been spanked before."

"Was that-" Roan paused to flinch. "-in my file?"

"Yes, your juvenile psychiatric reports," Percy said. "Your mother detested you, but she was unable to reach out to you physically. She could not even bring herself to strike you. By the time your unfortunate generation was even conceived, corporal discipline had been abolished in every government system, most educational systems. No one ever knew what to do with you, and those that did did not have any legal means of doing it."

Roan stared blankly at the desk and the office, at Percy's empty chair. The strap burned fire into his skin. It shocked him how much it hurt, after he had spent so much time and energy strengthening his body with the rigorous Division combat training. His skin tingled with hot, stinging pain. His throat was tight and his eyes watered, but he did not let himself cry.

"So, you were shuffled around, caged when necessary, as you were caged by your mother in the basement for days on end when she was too afraid of you," Percy went on monotonously. "Repressed by force, and isolated by force. It caused emotional disconnect, which was fueled by your overactive ego: the world only falls into place when it revolves around you. That is why you are in such dire need of a reality check."

Roan pressed into the desk, trying to retreat from the relentless strap. He blinked back the tears as best he could, but they were near to spilling over. All he wanted to do was release all the years of pent-up emotion and bawl, but he could not. In a way, he did not even know how.

Percy began to comprehend this as the beating went on. He was not satisfied with Roan's quiet agony, he still wanted him broken beneath him. He decided to change tactics. He paused in the punishment, and after a moment, ran a hand over Roan's bottom soothingly. The raised welts were outlined with white, the rest a throbbing, bright red.

Roan inhaled deeply, and broke into a ragged pant. The kindness was worse than the pain. It was inexplicable, but the comfort was what cut through his layers of defense, pierced straight through to his heart. He felt small and unworthy of it; in that moment, he would have given anything to resume the whipping.

Percy sat on the edge of the desk, beside Roan's half-prostrate figure. He rustled a hand through Roan's blond hair. "It's why you're in such dire need-" He turned Roan's face by the neck towards his own, looked earnestly into his eyes. "-of human contact."

Percy gave him just enough comfort with his sympathetic gaze, his hand lingering on Roan's head, before he stood up again and resumed the beating. The shock of going from punishment to comfort and back again had the desired effect: this time, Roan found it harder to stifle his emotions, and Percy could almost hear him choking on them.

Percy held nothing back this time, striking the youth as harshly as possible. Roan squirmed uncontrollably, burying his face in his arms. As he moved, Percy noticed a glimpse of his genitals when his thighs parted, enticing him, bringing his arousal to a fever pitch. He knew he would make that mistake, knew that at last the excitement of total control over the young and lost would take hold of him. He sighed, half in disappointment and half in pleasure.

"Go ahead, son," Percy said. "Let it out."

Roan gasped down a deep breath, his eyes hot and uncomfortable from the unshed tears. His vision blurred. Percy rubbed his bottom heartily, and then sat on the edge of the desk again. He set the strap down, and brought his palm against the youth's bottom a few times. Feeling the disapproval so personally, Roan at last began to crack. He made a few indescribable sounds, moving his arm across the desk to shield his eyes. Percy could see the effects of a childhood spent hiding one's emotions, and he found it … tragically attractive.

Percy got to his feet, crossed his arms, studying the wonderfully lush marks covering Roan's backside. "All right," he said. "All right. Get up. It's over."

Roan sniffled, hoisting himself up on his arms. The arm Percy had twisted gave, and he half-fell back on the desk. Blushing, he forced himself to stand upright, hastily pulling his sweatpants back up to cover the smarting welts. He turned and looked at Percy, face blotchy, mouth turned down childishly.

Percy found him to be indescribably lovely. Roan's face was miserable, caught in a frown deeper than a man his age should be able to produce, and his eyes alone were shining beacons of hope and need. Percy loved seeing this rudimentary predator submitting to him, acknowledging him as the stronger species. It was primal and cruel- beautiful.

"There, there." Percy took Roan's face into both hands. All he wanted was to taste those tears in his mouth as he wrapped his lips around the youth's mouth. He rubbed off some tears from the corners of Roan's eyes with his thumbs as he surveyed his face. "It's done."

Roan was actually trembling from the effort of fighting his emotions. As Percy touched him, he stilled, exhaled shakily. Percy moved his hands from his face to his neck, down to his shoulders. Roan coughed, his shoulders shrinking beneath Percy's grip, and he leaned forward. He could not quite make contact, so Percy subtly moved him closer. Without even noticing he was being pulled, Roan stepped forward on his own, and threw his arms around his boss.

Percy lustily felt the youth in his arms, his hands wandering Roan's strong, broad back, down to his trim waist, his face brushing into his hair and neck. He was impossibly warm in his arms, and so young.

Percy could not contain himself anymore. He turned Roan's face to his own, and crushed his lips into the youth's. Roan recoiled at first, an instinct from years of never letting himself go unless it was on his own terms. Percy grasped him commandingly, and his resolve gave. He kissed Percy back, deeply, without restraint, and the Head of Division knew he had him.

"Wait."

Roan pulled back, dazed. Percy took him by the arm and led him to the hidden elevator in the back of the room. He punched in a code, and the doors opened. They went in, and were delivered to Percy's private suite in seconds.

"You have a room here."

Percy smiled. "Of course. You didn't think Division's show-runner was the only one sleeping off the premises, did you?"

Roan looked around as he walked into the room. He ran his hands over furniture, glanced at the few photographic artworks framed on the walls. The room had a false warmness, in its richness of wood finishes, but there was a distinct feeling of impersonality. Roan, being spartan in his own tastes, approved.

The bed was large, luxurious, and given much more attention than the rest of the furniture. Percy met Roan's gaze, snorted in amusement, and went to the bar on the side of the room. "Would you like something? For the sting, maybe?"

Roan shook his head. "No."

Percy poured himself two fingers of whiskey. "Brave boy." He poured another glass, extended it to Roan. He did not want any last nerves to ruin this for him. "Come on. I won't think any less of you for it."

Roan took the glass. He looked in it, and gulped it down in one go. Alcohol had little effect on him, but the slight buzz of it coursing through his veins felt good. Percy reached out and removed his glasses, set them on the table. He took the glass and poured the young man another drink.

"I don't want you to think this has any bearing on our professional relationship," Percy said, trying to hang onto the last of his dignity. "That beating was not foreplay. I will not always comfort you, I will do things that make you hate me, often, repeatedly. Do not think for a moment that this means you're in the clear."

"I wouldn't even want to be with you-" Roan downed half of his fresh drink. "-if you would give me any less."

Percy smiled. Roan was a sharp tool meant to be used, and he was intelligent enough to know it; he did not bother with inane pretensions to more power, the way Amanda did. It was such a tender age he was at, and yet he completely understood himself; even if he did not like some of his qualities, he accepted them. It took a great deal of inner strength to reconcile one's reality with what one wished themselves to be.

Percy set his glass down and moved Roan's drink from his face. He kissed the youth voraciously, and it was returned, more than matched. When he drew back, his eyes were full of purpose and resolve. He began working on Percy's tie, undid it quickly and set to unbuttoning his shirt. Percy took no action, content to watch him and all his exuberance.

Once he was sufficiently aroused by Roan's tongue wandering down his bared chest and neck, down his stomach, almost to the crotch Roan's hands were busily trying to reveal, hands at his slacks' zipper, Percy took charge. He removed his own belt, unzipped his own pants, and took Roan by both wrists.

With a pleasure laced with greed, Percy maneuvered Roan through the room, to the bed. Roan grinned, the first time Percy had seen even a trace of a smile on his face, and kept kissing and biting at his superior. Percy allowed it for a few minutes, and then turned Roan to face the bed, and bent him over it. He easily brought down Roan's sweats and briefs, for the second time that day.

The puffy welts lining Roan's buttocks gave Percy a renewed sense of dominance, and he clenched at them with both hands. Roan flinched away from the kneading at first, then leaned into it. He tripped as he tried to kick his sweats and briefs off from around his ankles, clumsily falling over the mattress, making his position all the more undignified. Percy held him there lightly, opening a nightstand drawer and removing a bottle of lubricant.

"It's perfectly normal to be anxious," he told the youth as he slathered the liquid on. "It's rather obvious you've never done this before. With a man, I mean."

"I'm not scared."

It sounded juvenile, but Percy could tell it was genuine. "No, you're not. It's the lack of ever having any fear that's driven you so far in your rebellion, isn't it?" he remarked. "You're a tough kid." He pulled back Roan's head by his blond hair. "I appreciate that."

Roan opened his mouth to speak, but Percy entered him them, and his words were cut off with a soft gasp. His head was released, and he bowed it into the sheets, which he grasped in his fists. He felt violated in some way, in a way he never had during sex before; there was no struggle to impress or interest to feign, only a perversely humiliating gratification.

One of the last things Percy thought before his common sense was lost entirely, was that the line had been crossed, and there would be no going back from here. He knew enough to worry for a second, before losing himself in the undeniable pleasure.


	3. Chapter 3

**3. In His Own Words**

For all his usual cold aloofness, Roan was quite warm with Percy. He lay with his head rested on his chest, an arm slung around him. He had never lain with someone this long, preferring to dismiss his mistresses once the act was done.

"I want to hear your story," Percy said suddenly. He looked down at Roan. "From your own mouth. Now."

Roan looked a little sullen. He had obviously hoped that he had escaped having to delve into his past and mental state. _I should have known Percy wouldn't let me, _he thought. _He's too stern to give me an inch. It's what makes him a great leader- damn him._

"My childhood was what you already said: my mother's schizophrenia forced her to demonize me to avoid the responsibility of loving me," Roan said with a sigh. He sat up, apart from Percy, cross-legged beneath the sheet, as if mirroring his mother's coldness subconsciously. "I can't remember a single time she ever touched me. My father died when I was four in overseas combat. From that point on, I was taught to do everything for myself, and was dropped off every day at a daycare by a car pool. The care workers labeled me withdrawn and thought I was slow- until they tested me and found out I was actually above average intelligence. That gave me some space, but I made people nervous, even then. When I got into elementary school, it was worse. I never took to the primitive politics of school life. If someone bothered me, I would hurt them until they stopped. I never thought it was a problem, but it earned me the reputation of having no empathy. I think I was flagged as a probable future serial killer."

Percy smirked at his tone. "You sound proud of that."

Roan smiled slightly, shrugged his strong shoulders. "I liked having the attention, but I especially enjoyed the power of having people fear me. I kept on, until I was eighteen. I knew there would be no coming back from a criminal record, and I was bored of being the bully. I joined the military, hiding myself enough to get through the exams, and it was fine for almost four years."

"Then the incident."

"The others hated me," scowled Roan. "Soldiers hate being scared more than anything, and they can't tolerate being scared of one of their own. They tried to make a joke out of my cruelty, called me 'psycho', but they couldn't. It wasn't just me, there were others, but they knew just when to pull back before crossing some kind of line. They would tie grenades to kittens and strays, too. They would threaten civilians just to see them recoil in fear. But then they had a few beers and laughed at stupid things, and they were normal."

"But not you?"

"No, I don't exactly have a sense of humor," Roan said. "There was something about the way I peeled the skin off a dog while it was alive that put me over that line of acceptable cruelty. That, and all those civilians I shot down in that village. They stopped laughing then. I could see it in their eyes after that, every time we were on the field: they wanted me gone because I terrified them."

"Do you really think they would have shot you?"

"No, those cowards didn't have the spine," sneered Roan. "But they were going to hang me out to dry, leave me for dead."

"So you took the initiative."

Roan's lips thinned into a grim line. "I lost control. I admit it. I should have finished my tour and seen if I could get into black ops, the CIA, anything. But it was … it was so hot, and I was lost with these stupid, sniveling morons that were practically cowering whenever I looked at them … worried about a few nothing lives plowed down in the last village … "

"Why did you shoot those civilians?"

Roan looked at him. "Because they were in the way," he said plainly.

"And the soldiers, they were in your way, too?"

Roan shrugged, staring at his hands. He was not ashamed, and it was his lack of shame that made him unsympathetic, Percy noted. He did not know how to feign remorse, so he went blank, and that was what scared those unfamiliar with dealing with true predators.

Roan turned on the bed so he was facing Percy. "How do I explain any of that to Carla or Amanda? How can I express what isn't there?"

"You just explained it to me."

"You understand," Roan said. "They're women. Even that cold bitch Amanda is still a woman, and she still has a strong maternal instinct, no matter how twisted it is. Carla is a soft touch. I'm something offensive, something they couldn't help resenting. The only reason Carla doesn't resent me is that she's naïve; she's convinced herself there's something under the surface."

Percy reached over to put a hand on Roan's shoulder. "But there is, Roan."

"But they'll never see it," Roan pointed out. "I can't … I've never been able to open up to anyone besides you. I won't cry for them. I won't tell them any of this. I can't do it."

"You can, you simply don't want to," Percy said. He sat up beside Roan. "But you **will **tell them everything you told me. You will blame PTSD and paranoia for murdering your fellow soldiers. You will blame your lack of empathy on being raised without physical contact or emotional affection. You don't have to cry, but you **will **_explain_."

Roan glowered at his hands, sulking again. His expression clearly asked 'Do I _have _to?'. Percy chuckled, giving his sour face a kiss.

"It won't be so bad," he said. "Even sociopaths can be sympathetic, if they know how to explain themselves properly. Use Carla's attachment to you, use Amanda's warped maternal instincts, and gain sympathy. If you don't, I'm going to look like a fool for allowing you to continue the program."

Percy took Roan's face by the chin and met his eyes. "And I don't like being made to look the fool, Roan."

"I'll try."

"Promise. _Promise_."

"I promise."

"Good." Percy released his face, tousled his hair. "Good boy. If you fail in your efforts, you will get another lesson. If you go back to your defiant ways, if you embarrass me or make me in any way regret giving you this very precious second chance, I will cancel you. Understand?"

"Yes sir." Roan hesitated. "And this?"

"Our illicit and unprofessional affair?"

Roan nodded, watching Percy carefully.

"It's a mistake, I won't deny that," Percy said. He smiled, touching Roan's cheek with the back of his hand. "But I don't regret it. If you want, we can continue it, so long as you never, ever try to take advantage of it."

Roan smiled his small smile. "Good."

"And no one can ever know about it."

"I thought you wanted me to open up to Carla about everything?"

Percy chuckled, but he gripped Roan's ear tightly with his hand. "Not everything. Understand?"

Roan winced, though he was still smiling. "Yes sir."

Percy eyed him as he rolled onto his stomach, resting his head on the pillow. He gave Roan's bottom a swat, and then lay beside him. He truly hoped Roan would not make him live to regret this.

* * *

"I don't understand."

Percy shut his eyes, stifling the urge to sigh. Amanda stood before his desk, arms crossed, perfectly shaped eyebrows knit in a frown. As much as he admired her strength, it could be grating on the nerves sometimes.

"You're keeping Roan on? Since when?" Amanda demanded to know. "I am aware of his fighting prowess, but the man will never be an agent."

"I understand where you're coming from, Amanda, I do," Percy assured her. "This wasn't a decision I made lightly. I never have given a candidate a second chance like this. I simply think it would be a waste to squander someone with so much potential simply because of his lacking finesse."

"You think he can be taught?"

Percy doubted it, but he said, "I think we should try. I … spoke to him. He is willing to try."

Amanda raised one eyebrow. "Is he?"

"Yes, and do you know what?" Percy stood. "He's been useful already."

"How?"

Percy came around in front of the desk beside Amanda. He turned his computer monitor around to face them, and pressed a few buttons. A video came on.

"I tested a few progressive therapy techniques on him, and they were remarkably successful," Percy explained. "I think you should consider adapting some of them, especially with our more difficult candidates."

Amanda's cool eyes glistened with interest. The video showed the whipping Percy had given Roan, with the moments of affection skillfully edited out. It ended with that look Roan had given him upon standing, the tears evident on his face, his eyes shattered by emotion. Amanda was impressed: she had never seen a trace of emotion on Roan's face before, and now he was totally devastated.

"You're right," she conceded. "It's a very effective tactic. However, if we were cleared to use such methods, why did you never let me know about it?"

"It hadn't crossed my mind before Roan," Percy said. "And for the record, we are cleared to use any method that might work."

"Good to know."

"So long as we don't abuse our power, Amanda."

Amanda gave him a look, and then looked back at the video screen frozen on Roan's wretched expression. "And after this? He simply gave in and promised to make an effort?"

Percy reflected on all that had followed the beating smugly. "Something like that."

Amanda took the video back and watched the beating again. "I could have done this, but you chose to. Why?"

"He would have closed off to you, no matter how hard you would have hit him," Percy said. "He resents women due to his mother's lack of love for him, and does not know how to be genuine with them. He needed a father figure to discipline him, it's always been the one thing he craves."

"Makes sense." Amanda cocked her head, studying the belt's resounding whacks on the video. "Is he gay?"

"He might have tendencies," Percy said casually. "But as you can see, he was not sexually aroused. Remember that, Amanda, never let it get sexual. Tempting as it may be for you."

Amanda looked at him cynically. "Or you?"

Percy smiled. "I'm not gay, Amanda." He lingered closely behind her, said in her ear, "I'm shocked that you missed that."

Amanda smiled, turned her face. "No, Percy, I didn't miss it." She shook her dark hair over her shoulder. "And don't worry about my professionalism. I won't get carried away with S&M fantasies."

"Oh, you have those, do you?"

Amanda smiled. "I'm surprised you missed that."

Percy smiled, but thought, _You couldn't dominate a fly, silly bitch._

"What about Carla?" Amanda asked. "Do you think she'll be adapting any of these alternative techniques?"

Percy exhaled, bowing his head to think. This matter had been nagging at him for a time now. Carla was already being lied to about what happened to the program's rejects, she thought 'cancellation' meant they were bounced back to prison or put on the street under a false identity. Percy did not feel guilty for lying to her, but he knew he could not fool her forever. People got curious, their instincts rose, and the evidence was there all around her. Distracting her from the lie about cancellation by making her mad over the reality of the extremes the program could go to might be a good move.

"I will talk to Carla," Percy said finally. "I don't think she'll be wielding the proverbial rod anytime soon, but I want her to know the reality of the measures we have to go to occasionally."

"She's going to be furious," Amanda said with relish, "that you went and spanked her precious star patient. She likes him, you know."

"Obviously."

Amanda's eyes flicked to the video. "Will you show her that?"

Percy glanced at the screen, gaze caressing Roan's prone figure. "No." He shut the thing off. "I think we'll keep the visuals between the three of us."

Amanda smirked. Percy could not help a smile, shaking his head. He liked Carla, owed her everything, but her raging idealism did make her a prime target to laugh at.

What could he say? It was a cynical world.

* * *

After a bit of arguing and a lot of coaching, Roan found himself in Carla Bennett's office that afternoon. He sat sulking in the chair, buttocks incredibly sore from last night, preparing to do the thing he hated the most: open up.

Carla was flustered when she came in. She stood over Roan, some kind of pity and protectiveness in her eyes. "What's this I hear from Percy?"

Roan looked up at her expressionlessly.

"What did he do to you, Roan?" Carla sat on her chair, drawing it closer to Roan's. "Tell me."

"Why?" Roan could not help but be fastidious. "He told you, didn't he?"

"Roan."

Remembering the lesson that had been whipped into him all too recently, Roan changed his attitude. "I'm sorry," he said wearily. He removed his glasses, stared at them. "I'm not used to talking about myself."

"I know."

"I thought … " Roan put his glasses back on. "I thought I could get away with passing the program based on my combat skills. I didn't realize how demanding it is, what the standards are. I was warned, but I've never been good with rules and consequences."

Carla nodded understandingly. Roan almost appreciated her sympathy in that moment; he still felt a bit beaten down since the punishment, his ego not what it usually was.

"By all rights, I should have been canceled out of the program," Roan said. "But Percy saw something in me … and he listened to you. I know you've been defending me."

"But he-"

"This program isn't a game, Carla," Roan told her. He had not been coached to feel sorry for her, but he did, slightly. He leaned forward in his chair. "I'm not sure if you know how serious it is. There are going to be things that go on here you won't morally agree with at all, things you are going to see as inhuman."

"Like Percy resorting to corporal punishment?"

Roan's lips tightened. If only she knew that Percy had already resorted to murder, most likely many times over, given the amount of people that failed the program.

"I deserved it, Carla," Roan said simply. "It was a mercy. Like I said, I really should not have been given a second chance at all. I'm grateful to him."

Carla frowned. "And you just accept that he demeaned you that way? That he hurt you?"

Roan bowed his head, trying to find the least humiliating way to phrase his next confession. There wasn't one.

"No one had ever forced me to do anything, Carla," he said. "I grew up without a father, without discipline. This is my last chance. This is it. I'll submit to anything to succeed here. I'll do anything. I want this. I believe in Division."

"But Percy is taking advantage of that."

Roan shook his head. "No. You know him, Carla. You know his vision for the program. You know that while he enjoys his power, he wouldn't abuse it for the sake of abuse. Even his abuses are pointed, they serve a purpose. Everyone here serves a purpose."

Carla sat back in her chair, shaking her head. "I don't know what I know anymore," she said, her professionalism falling away. "Ever since we expanded, it's … it just seems so much bigger than me."

"It's bigger than all of us."

Carla looked at him again. "You're so calm about all of this. How can you be?"

"I'm a soldier," Roan said. He was surprised by the gentleness of his voice. " … No, it's more than that. I grew up without human contact. I learned the feeling of it by fighting. I don't understand contact without violence. My mind is just … formed that way. Do you understand?"

"I do."

"But that isn't a problem I can or want to change," Roan said. "That's why I never talk about myself. I'm fine with the way I am. It makes me strong. It makes me a good soldier. I won't jeopardize that."

"But you're talking about yourself now," Carla said. "Therapy doesn't have to be all tears and emotions, Roan. Sometimes, this is enough. Sometimes, it means more when it's simple."

She reached over and put her hand on his. He was surprised that he did not find the tender touch offensive. Carla's sincere brown eyes met his blue, glasses-shielded ones.

"I thought you were like all the other social workers and school councilors," Roan explained. "They were control-hungry sadists masquerading as concerned parties. All they wanted was to stick their fingers into my brain and pick it all apart. I never blamed them, it's human nature to explore what they don't understand, to destroy it if necessary. I never let them in. I made a rule to never let anyone in."

Roan shifted, frowning briefly. "But you mean it, don't you? You actually want to help people."

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes." Roan withdrew his hand and sat back in the chair. "It's human nature. I can't believe anyone would want to help them without their own selfish motivations."

"I do think there are people worth helping," Carla said. "Don't you think you're worth my time?"

Roan thought of the lives he had taken, was pleasured by the memories, and quickly replied, "No."

Carla smiled. "All right. Well, I do believe you are. But I _do_ have my own reasons." Carla looked at her hands, twisting a ring on one of her fingers. "I have … things to make up for, demons to battle. So, I'm not completely selfless, either."

"Good." Roan smiled vaguely. "That means you're not a liar. Maybe we can work together."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Carla's brow furrowed just slightly. She hated to admit it, but Percy's beating had worked wonders on Roan: he was like a completely different person. She knew the violence Division agents used on the battlefield was necessary, but she never thought she would see corporal punishment as helpful. Her eyes went to the portrait of the desert flower again. It seemed grim to her now, a depiction of life having to physically battle its way through pain and emptiness and suffering.

Roan followed her gaze, and understood her thoughts. "It has to be like that."

Carla looked at him uncertainly.

"Heroes aren't born, they're made."

"Percy always says that."

"Percy is right." Roan reached out and took her hand, squeezed it reassuringly. He knew she was a person that needed physical contact to connect. "Trust him."

" … All right. But I don't like it." She held Roan's hand tightly. "I know this training, these jobs, will be painful, for all of you. Just know that I will never like seeing you hurt."

Roan swallowed, unused to the kindness. " … Thank you. I … I appreciate it, Carla."


	4. Chapter 4

**4. Agent**

Six months passed. Roan continued his affair with Percy, and surprised himself by forming a genuine, if quiet, friendship with Carla. He had underestimated the woman's ability to accept people the way they were: she had a sense of his coldness, but she did not try to fight it. The woman was a lot stronger than Roan would have imagined, and he came to respect her for it. Between Percy and Carla, Roan felt a sense of family.

There remained one member that Roan could have done without inside Division's group of surrogates: Amanda. Roan never got past the point of merely tolerating her. He allowed her to keep him clean-shaven and dressed up like a doll, let her dictate his haircuts and manicures, let her teach him to ease his posture just enough so that he would not look like the soldier he was deep down, and let her talk and talk. He replied, with short, clipped answers, but there was still a chill between the two.

"I cannot _believe _you made him an agent."

Percy and Amanda were in the Division command center, watching a screen with mission data and visuals flickering. Percy's arms were crossed, Amanda's were on her hips, and they both refused to look at one another.

"Give it a rest," Percy said, tired of her complaining about Roan. He was all the more annoyed because he had the sinking feeling she was right. Everything was riding on this one mission, and he could not shake the idea that Roan would let him down.

"He has no polish, no personality, he's irritatingly deadpan," Amanda went on. She finally looked over at Percy. "And you send him on a mission like this?"

Percy ignored her. He knew it was not a good idea to have sent Roan into the middle of a charity event with the highest of society, with his objective being to seduce the daughter of a foreign dignitary into running away with him and the contents of her father's safe, which he kept with her for security purposes: she would think Roan wanted the money, but his objective was a flash drive with information concerning upcoming political plans. He would run off with her, until he got the moment to slip away with the fortune and the drive. In theory.

In reality, it was not going so well. The only thing saving Roan from coming across as a freak was his looks, and the fact that the girl was too simple and drunk to understand his biting cynicism.

"He's … improving," Percy said. They were listening to the conversation as it went. "She likes him."

"She likes him because he's cute," Amanda said, "and she's stupid. A target with half a brain would have sensed something was off with him by now, and the mission would be over."

Percy could not deny it.

"He will never be an agent," Amanda said slowly. "No matter how much you and Carla want him to be."

* * *

The mission went from bad to worse. Roan seduced the giggly woman, and was adept at pleasuring her in bed, at least. However, he was bored, and found her presence excruciating. He had planned to get to the safe that night, but she was drunk and passed out thrown over Roan. Roan lay wide awake for half an hour before he had to pry her off and get out of the bed. He took a few hours of sleep on the hotel room sofa. When he woke up, he did not turn his communication device back on.

As always, he failed to comprehend the art of subtlety and the advantage of politics. When the woman came to in the morning, she was tied to the bed. It did not take very long to learn where the safe was hidden, and not very much longer for her to give him the pass code to it. Roan was a little disappointed that he never got past the point of strangling her a little and pricking at her perfectly manicured toes with his knife; he would have loved to cut a piece or two of her off.

When he learned what had happened, Percy was livid. He did not show his emotions, ordering Roan back calmly. Amanda did not dare tell Percy anything, but her look was smug enough to say it all.

Roan was in Percy's office by that night. Percy did not even look at him. He sat in his chair, rubbing his forehead with his hand. There was a bottle of liquor, missing a few inches already, and a glass on his desk. There was also a gun.

Roan came up to the desk, stood before it, hands behind his back. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

Percy looked up at him. "Do you have any idea what you have done?"

"I accomplished the mission," Roan said warily. "I know I took it into my own hands, but we're supposed to use our own judgment, and-"

"And you completely _fucked up_!" Percy roared at him. He got to his feet, slammed both hands down on the table. "Do you get that?"

Roan was shocked by his loss of temper. He swallowed hard, staring at his boss with wide eyes. They had given him contacts for the mission, and so his glasses were not there to shield the emotion in his gaze.

"I put my faith in you," Percy went on, pacing behind the desk. "I gave you every chance! I put my reputation on the line to defend you! And what the hell have you done?"

Roan's shoulders fell. He shrank back from the desk just an inch.

"You made me look like a fool, damn you!" Percy screamed at him.

"I-I … only … I thought it would be simpler," Roan stammered, uncharacteristically nervous. "It would have taken forever to seduce her into it, and-"

"And WHAT!" Percy shouted. "You didn't have the time?"

Roan said nothing.

"If it takes forever, you spend the time! That's the mission!" Percy continued the tongue-lashing. "You take the time, and you do it _**right**_!"

"But why the seduction and games?"

"You don't decide how these missions go down!" Percy snapped. "You don't decide anything! You take your orders and you follow them! And for the record, the reason for the so-called 'games' is simple: we were trying to avoid the international incident that you just sparked!"

"Oh."

Percy was beginning to crack. He slapped Roan's face, hard.

"Don't you dare pretend," he said fiercely. "You're too smart to not have known that. You disregarded the reasons, the rules, and my explicit orders. You disregarded everything Division IS! Everything it stands for- Everything _**I**_ stand for!"

Roan stared at the floor, frozen. He knew he was going to die. He almost felt relief. It was over. He began to go numb.

Percy poured himself a fresh drink. "You will never be an agent."

Roan looked at him. " … Can I do it, sir?"

Percy was perplexed as he gulped down his drink. "What are you talking about? Do what?"

"Cancel myself," Roan explained. He looked down at the gun on Percy's desk. "You don't have to do it, sir. I'll pull the trigger."

Percy could not hide his shock. "Are you insane? Damn it!" He slammed the glass down on the desk and came around it. He took Roan by the front of the tuxedo he was still wearing, shook him violently. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

Roan's eyes glistened. "You're going to cancel me," he said, matter-of-fact. "I'm going to die, either way. I would rather be the one to pull the trigger, that's all."

Percy slapped him, and then backhanded his other cheek. Roan's face was bright red. He blinked back the tears, frowning deeply.

"Please, just let me end it myself." The anguish broke over his face. "Let's just get it over with."

"You stupid bastard!" Percy released him in disgust. He sighed, smoothing a hand over his hair. "I'm not going to kill you."

"What?"

"I'm not going to kill you!" Percy growled at him. "I should … but I'm not going to."

Roan stared at him in disbelief. "Why?"

"Because I'm selfish." Percy picked the glass back up. "I'm selfish and stupid … and, though I imagine I've held up quite well, I'm still an old man."

"What-"

"I won't deprive myself of you yet," Percy told him. "I enjoy you too much."

Roan raised his eyebrows.

"And I still think you have some purpose here at Division, God help me." Percy swallowed the remainder of the liquor in the glass. "You're a pain in the ass, but you aren't rogue. You're a soldier … just not an agent. I don't know. Maybe I'm deluded. I must be."

"Than-"

"Don't. Don't you dare thank me."

Roan shut his mouth.

"Take off your jacket, take your pants down," Percy demanded, refilling his glass. "Underwear, too. Bend over the chair, legs apart. You'll want to undo that bow tie."

Roan obeyed him without a word. He heard the drawer open, knew Percy was removing that strap. As much as he dreaded the pain, he was relieved. He almost wanted to point out to Percy the irony that he was being punished for not seducing someone at the same time as being rewarded for having so successfully seduced Percy, but he refrained.

Percy did not even scold Roan once during the beating. He stringently brought the strap against Roan's bared skin, fast and without a shred of restraint. It was not enough. He lay scarlet stripes up and down Roan's buttocks, thighs, and then pushed his shirt up and whipped his back, up to the shoulders.

By the time he was satisfied, sweat was drenching his shirt, and he was panting. Roan was slumped over the chair, sobbing quietly. He collapsed to his knees on the floor, covering his face with both hands.

Percy knelt beside him, hesitantly uncovering his face. "God," he said when their eyes met, "I hate you right now."

Nonetheless, Percy took Roan's face in both hands and kissed him passionately. He was worried. He was worried that his reputation would be irrevocably ruined by letting Roan live. He was worried about what the hell he was going to do with Roan, if he could not make him an agent.

Percy took his troubled student into his arms, holding him as he cried, as if the man, for all his strength and training, was no more than a child. He absently kissed his tear-streaked face, stroked his hair. After a while, he helped him to his feet and reassembled his clothing.

"Come on," he sighed. "Come on."

They went up to Percy's suite. Percy undressed him again, lay him on his stomach on his bed. Roan had stopped sobbing abruptly some minutes ago, apparently having exhausted his small well of emotions. He sniffled away the rest of the mucus, and wiped the remnants of tears off his face. By the time he was lying down, he was remarkably calm.

Percy went into the bathroom, came back with some things. He used a warmly moistened towel to wipe away the few streaks of blood in some of the welts, let it rest on some of the worst welts for a time to ease the muscles. Roan watched him, quiet.

"You're going to be sore for a while," Percy said. He began massaging a cream for the pain and to prevent any scarring into Roan's shoulders and back, moving down his battered body. "I was going to string you up in the …. interrogation room, but … I haven't fully mastered a bullwhip yet."

Roan smiled weakly, as if it were a joke; he knew it was not.

"I don't know what I'm going to do with you," sighed Percy. "You can't be an agent, but you're made for the field. Combat. But you're a loose cannon, and we can't risk that. Still, you have talent, and you haven't gone rogue like that … son-of-a-bitch Samson."

"Samson really did go rogue, huh?"

"Mm hm." Percy continued treating the welts. "I'm going to be going out to cancel him tomorrow. Stupid bastard hasn't even deactivated his tracker yet. Don't think he knows anyone that can."

"Are you always the one that cancels the rogue agents?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it wouldn't be conducive to the mental health of the agents if they had to go out and kill their fellow agents," Percy explained. "They can't be that in touch with the reality of how they could end up. And I haven't found anyone else I can trust enough to find and put down the rogues. So, it falls to me."

Roan thought about this for a long moment. Percy thought he had fallen asleep by the time he spoke again.

"I could do it."

Percy looked at him, startled. "Excuse me?"

Roan painfully turned enough to look back up at his boss. "I could do it for you. I have no qualms about killing agents, I have no friendships with any of them. Why not let me clean up?"

Percy's eyes lit with the promise of the idea. "Clean up … " He paused in his massage, thinking. He nodded. "Yes. You know, I think that might be an idea."

"It would be something to do with me, at least."

"Yes it would." Percy finished rubbing the medicine into Roan's thighs, set the bottle on the nightstand, wiped his hands on a towel. "But you still need to learn the rules of it, and _**follow **_them. It's a complicated procedure, physically erasing a life so completely."

"I can learn."

"And will you obey?"

A bit abashed, Roan said, "Yes. I can hunt and kill. It's simple, no games, no stupid-"

"Ah."

"No games."

Percy gave him a look, and Roan avoided his gaze. Percy looked Roan over, and was a little surprised by how savage he had been to him. There was not a spot he would be able to touch without causing the man more pain, so he rubbed the man's neck, the top of his shoulder.

"You can come with me tomorrow," Percy said. "We'll hunt this Samson down together, and you can see how it's done."

Roan nodded, flinched, lay his head down still on the pillow. Percy ruffled his hand through his hair. "I regret having been so hard on you. It's a waste. You looked very handsome in that tuxedo."

Roan grimaced. "If that was the last tuxedo I'll ever be forced to wear, it was worth the beating."

"You are hopeless."

They laughed, though Roan stopped quickly, his shoulders aching. He shut his eyes, lying as still as humanly possible. He could take pain, of course, but he was not exactly a glutton for punishment.

Percy stroked his head and face until he fell into an exhausted sleep. He watched the youth for a time before undressing and lying beside him. He felt utterly drained. He hated complications. He hated emotional attachments. No matter how hard one tried to keep from being manipulated, the moment they cared in any capacity about another person, they were bound to lose objectivity and control.

Percy frowned. Was it true, then? Did he really care about Roan? He looked down at the man, frowning seriously even in his sleep. Yes, he cared about him, despite himself. He could never make the mistake of sleeping with another recruit, but he had made it this time, and he would never stop dealing with the fallout. Oh, well, he finally thought. He was entitled to make his mistakes, so long as they were only made once, and he could allow himself one indulgence. Benefits of power, leave it at that. He was sick of the whole thing, and so he made a decision not to battle with himself about Roan anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

**5. Purpose**

Percy awoke early the next morning. Roan was not beside him in bed. He figured the youth had crawled back to his own room to lick his wounds, and could not really blame him. To his surprise, he found Roan using his shower. He went about his own routine until the young man got out of the bathroom, dressed. Percy, tying his tie in the mirror, glanced over at him.

"You're very mobile, given last night," he commented.

"It isn't pleasant, but I'm used to pain," Roan said. In truth, he was moving a bit slower than normal, and he absolutely refused to sit down. "I'll just be going to observe, I won't have to be at my best."

"Later, Roan, later," Percy said. "For the love of Division, lie down."

"I-"

"Lie down."

Roan kicked his shoes off and returned to the bed. He felt a bit stupid, on his stomach there again, but it was more comfortable than walking around. Still, he kept himself propped up on his elbows, regardless of the throbbing on his back. His skin felt tight and raw beneath his cotton tee and sweats. Percy came over, lifted the shirt and the seat of his pants to see how it looked the morning after. It was not a pretty sight.

Roan had looked over his shoulder in the mirror, and grimaced at the thought. Percy gave his forehead a kiss, just a little pitying, and then left the room. When he returned, he had breakfast on a tray. For the sake of not having to answer questions, it was a very large serving on a single plate. He brought it to the bed, where he sat on the edge and set the tray between them. Starving, Roan instantly took to the meal. Percy took a few bites for himself, mostly content to watch his lover as if he were more of a pet.

"I think it's best if we get out early," Roan said. "If Samson figures out how to deactivate the tracker, it'll be harder to find him. Also, if Carla gets wind of this, she'll, as yesterday's target would say, 'freak out'."

"Don't remind me of yesterday's target," groaned Percy. "The repercussions of what you did to that girl are going to haunt Division for a while. We're agents, not terrorists."

"You mean, when we can help it, we aren't terrorists."

Percy scowled at him. "You do not want to test me, Roan."

"Sorry."

"Anyway, you are right about Carla," Percy said. "She's always been senselessly protective of you."

Roan snorted in amusement. "She thinks I'm cute."

"You are cute." Percy looked him up and down regretfully. "It's a shame you're so mentally damaged. You would have been a perfect agent, you know."

"I just can't deal with the bullsh- I mean, with the finer aspects of the job," Roan said carefully. He hung his head. "I thought I could, for a few moments yesterday. I thought, it won't be so hard, but then … it slipped away, just like that. I couldn't stand faking it with her for another second. So, I completed the objective as expediently as possible."

"By torturing the information out of her."

"I didn't actually torture her."

"But you would have, if she hadn't given in so quickly."

Roan wisely chose not to reply.

"Do you understand what your problem is?" Percy asked. "Control. Now, I consider myself a bit of a control freak, but I can deal with losing it; I bide my time, do what I have to to regain it. You panic."

"I don't panic."

"Yes, you do," Percy said. "I don't mean it in the hysterical sense, but it is panic nonetheless. The moment you lose control, you lash out desperately to get it back. When you lost control in the village, you cleared the path of civilians until you had it back. When you lost control of the other soldiers, you got rid of them. When you lost control of the mission last night, when she wouldn't meet your demands as quickly as you would have liked, you terrorized her until you got it back."

"I've lost control with you," Roan pointed out. "I haven't lashed out at you."

"What the hell do you think this constant disobedience is, really?" Percy said. "Division had higher standards than you could reach, and you lost control of your place in the program. So, you lashed out by refusing the psychology. We fought. I won, and so you conceded the control to me."

Roan contemplated his words as he ate. He had to admit that they rang true.

"You're going to have to be very strong, if you're going to be given the control you need to have to function," Percy said. "I can give you that, but you will have to step up to the challenge. There won't be a third chance. You might think I don't mean that, that I love you, but don't forget that I don't love anyone more than I love myself. I won't compromise myself for you again. I've done that twice, and that's been too much as it is."

"I swear, I won't disappoint you again."

Percy grumbled, "Oh, of course not, now that you're getting what you want." He stood, putting his jacket on, buttoning it. "I'm telling you, kid, you had better make all this worth my while."

Roan neither groveled nor sulked. He merely nodded his head. Percy, still a bit uncertain, for once in his life, left him there. He had a job to do, and even worse, he had an explanation for Roan's lack of cancellation to make up.

It was going to be a long day.


	6. Chapter 6

**6. Cleaner**

It was evening by the time Percy took Roan out on the field. Roan said nothing, but he was in a fair amount of pain by this time; his muscles stiff, entire backside aching. The helicopter ride was agony. He considered asking for some medication for it, but Percy did not offer, and so he kept from asking. Percy was quiet, focused. He spoke to brief Roan, give orders, and then said nothing. Roan did not know if Percy had ever been a soldier or an agent, but he saw that his boss was definitely some kind of veteran of this world; he took to it as naturally as he took to running Division.

The copter landed on the roof of a tall building in downtown Chicago. It was evident that it belonged to Division, and Roan marveled at the program's budget. They went downstairs and got into a waiting SUV. From there, they drove to a dark street, parked, and waited for the rogue agent Samson to show.

"I'm taking point on this," Percy told Roan, in the seat beside him. "You don't do anything unless it's on my order. Understand?"

Roan nodded. Whatever pain he was in, however much his nerves were rattling from the rush of being on the field again, he did not show it. He watched the dark, empty streets with a cool reserve. Figuring he was in his element, Percy decided to leave it at that; he would not need any coaching this time.

"Were you an operative before, sir?"

"Please stop the 'sir', this isn't the Marines," Percy said shortly. He glanced at Roan. "Yes. I've been an agent, operative, spy, politician, anything you can be in that damned town."

"Washington, D.C.?"

"Yes." Percy lifted his night vision scope, surveyed the streets and the windows of buildings. "I know I've been hard on you, but don't think I can't understand your intolerance of bullshit. I think it's one of the reasons I've kept you on so long after you've failed."

Roan watched him. Seeing nothing, Percy set down the scope.

"Division is my first big chance, and my last chance in general," the older man explained. "If I don't get the respect I need from Division, I'll settle for fear. If I'm not at least feared by our proud nation by the time Division is fully operational, I'll have failed. I'll be done."

"Aren't you already respected?"

"By those silver spoon-gagged political morons in D.C.?" scoffed Percy. "No. They've never taken me seriously."

"You're kidding."

"As ego-stroking as your admiration is," smiled Percy, "it isn't shared. I've had to prove myself for every scrap of power I have. Even then, they won't respect me. I'm the man this country has always needed in times of crisis, the man willing to wear the bigger black hat than the enemy, any enemy. But do you think the President gives medals for bravery when the price of that bravery is absolute cruelty? Of course not. At the end of the day, everyone wants the hero they hold up to shine in the light. Never mind those trophy pieces are never the real forces behind the shifts of power."

Roan was surprised by the openness. Percy was a little surprised, himself. He put a hand on the young man's knee, patted him.

"That's why I like you, I suppose," he said quietly. "You remind me of myself, before I put on all the layers of, as you call it, bullshit."

"Sir-"

"Don't."

" … Percy … "

Percy waited. Roan was struggling to express something obviously not in his nature. His eyes shifted past Percy's face then.

"Visual on Samson."

Percy followed his gaze. The rogue agent was walking down the street, hands in his pockets. He had a hood on, but the way he moved and looked around the streets in sweeping, steady glances made his Division training obvious. Roan aimed and looked through his gun's scope at his face. "Definitely him. Should I take him?"

Percy pushed the gun down. "What did I say about my taking point? Get rid of that thing. Never, ever in a public place, if it can be helped. Division is less than even a shadow: we ruin that illusion, we lose everything."

Roan put the sniper rifle away. They watched Samson go down the street until his back was turned on them.

"He made us."

Percy frowned. "How do you know that?"

"He only looked at the SUV out of the corner of his eye, deliberately," Roan explained. His hand was on the car door. "His stride lengthened as he passed us. He's going to double around that alley and try to surprise us. About forty seconds until contact."

"Get out, go under the car. Ready your weapon." Percy reached out and knocked the gun Roan had removed from his hand. "The one with the silencer, damn it. Try not to use it, though. No attention, got it?"

Roan grimaced sheepishly, and obeyed. He was out of the SUV and under it in ten seconds. He slammed the car door a little bit loudly on the way, though. Percy shook his head, sighing. Diamond in the rough, that's what Roan was, he thought.

Surely enough, Samson was at the car window with his gun aimed at Percy's head ten seconds later. "Get out of the car."

Percy held his hands up, bored. He tapped the window, Samson nodded, and he rolled it down with the press of a button.

"I knew you'd be coming for me." Samson did his name proud: a huge, thickly muscled young man with strong black hair covering a handsome, strong-jawed face. His brown eyes were hard as he glared at his former boss. "I'm going to open the door. Get out slowly. Don't move your hands."

"Take it easy, son."

"I'm not your son, damn it!"

Roan waited beneath the car. He took a strong grip on his gun, though he did not think he would need it. This Samson had never been the brightest bulb in Division. When he opened the door, his own gun slipped just slightly out of aim. Roan rolled out from under the car, behind the door, and slammed it hard into the man. In the few seconds he was off-balance, Roan unloaded the man's gun and pulled his hand into the door frame. Moving out from behind the door, he then shut it full force on Samson's hand. The man bellowed in furious pain, and his gun fell out of his ruined grip.

Percy decided to let Roan have point. He remained in the car and watched through the open window. Samson staggered back, regained himself. Roan faced him, collected as ever. Percy smirked. Even though he was a few inches taller than even Roan, and quite heavier, Samson would not have much of a chance: Samson had been part of Roan's training group, and no one in that group had ever bested Roan.

It was over in a little over a minute and a half. It would have ended sooner, but Roan was slightly slowed down by his soreness. Still, he had Samson down and restrained by the time Percy got out of the car. Percy had a syringe in hand. He knelt and jabbed it into Samson's neck neatly. The large man went unconscious.

"Never in public," Percy reiterated to his student. They heaved the body up and put him in the car, then got in. Percy checked the navigation computer on the dashboard. "He was holed up on the second floor of this abandoned building. Well. Let's take Samson home."

It was a short drive. They then dragged Samson out of the car, each of them with an arm under his shoulders, as if they were helping a drunken friend. If anyone was around the slum, no one paid any mind. Upstairs, they found the large open space where Samson had been hiding out.

"It's always best to do it wherever the target was staying," Percy explained, laying Samson out on the mattress he had used as a bed. "If they were staying with company, the company goes, too. Any contact with a rogue agent is a threat to Division."

Roan nodded. Remembering his time overseas, he asked, just to be sure, "Even civilians?"

"Especially civilians."

Roan smiled slightly. Percy had removed a black tool kit and tossed it onto the floor. He was looking around, sweeping all around the space, busy.

"Any whisper of our program in the public is a breach of our security, a threat to everything we stand for," Percy went on from another 'room' (the space was divided only by stacked boxes or crates piled up as walls). "An agent goes rogue, they die, anyone that they have made contact with dies, and then it's all cleaned up."

"Is that what you've been doing?" called Roan. He heard water running somewhere.

Percy returned, pushing a large cement-mixing tub filled with water into the main space. "Yes. It's taken some time, but I've finally gotten a rudimentary program for it figured out. Some basis in CIA protocol, some basis in mafia methods, and a dash of black ops for good measure. These rogues are absolutely scrubbed from existence, in every sense of the word."

Percy took the bag that he had made Roan carry in for him, put it on the floor. He removed jars and bags of chemical compounds. Roan leaned a shoulder against a beam, arms crossed, watching. Percy held up each bag or jar and explained the contents, being very specific about the order of things.

"While that solution mixes, you prepare the body," Percy said then. He knelt before the unconscious agent and unrolled the tool kit. "This system took me a long time to work out. It was a mess in the beginning. I shudder to think."

Roan knelt beside him, observing.

"Before anything, you always confirm the kill," Percy said. He took out his own gun, opened Samson's mouth, and shot him through it. "Even if the target is subdued, this-" He held up a syringe. "-will flush all the toxins out of their system. If they are drugged, they will awaken. It happened to me once, and it was a waste of energy putting the damn agent down again."

"I see. What is that for?"

"To relax the muscles and make certain there is no chemical in the body that will interfere with the solvent," Percy explained.

"Relax the muscles?"

Percy picked up one of the tools, a hand saw. "Did you really think we would just dump the entire body in at once? I did that once, as well. I almost burned my own skin off when that acid splashed."

"Oh. Of course."

"First, you cut the clothing off."

Roan nodded. He began to see that it would be a longer process than he ever would have imagined, but did not question it. Disposing of any body part in the outside world could possible give the authorities DNA, and it would not be good if people started finding the DNA of supposedly dead people around the country years after their alleged deaths and funerals. Even cremated remains sometimes contained DNA, if a bone or a tooth survived. Besides, it would be too much effort to drive or fly every body back to the Division HQ to be cremated there (outside services could not be trusted), and if the vehicle crashed with the bodies in it, they were done. Roan was impressed that Percy had considered all the possibilities and developed this system; it was that attention to detail that made Division run like a well-oiled machine.

When Samson's corpse was naked, Percy folded the remains of his clothing, dropped them into the acid. The fabric was eaten away in seconds. Then, Percy set to business dismembering the body. He explained every cut, how he had precisely mapped out where incision would cause the least blood loss. Normally, he said, he would have spread out plastic, but conveniently, the floor was already covered by a vinyl mat here, which would be removed upon completion of the gruesome task. Roan watched everything without a hint of squeamishness. Percy knew this would be the perfect job for him then and there. It was a relief to know Roan's future was no longer looking as short as it had just yesterday.

Even Roan was not entirely unmoved when they put the body pieces into the acid, however. He had no mental objection to it, but his body recoiled at the sight of flesh being stripped and eaten off in the chemicals, and the suffocatingly carnal and chemical smell it created. He fell to his knees and vomited into an empty chemical container. Percy laughed at his embarrassment. Roan returned to his side, blushing and chagrined.

"I'm sorry."

"It's perfectly normal," Percy said. "It took me longer than that to get used to this, and I still detest it. You're still just a bit human yet, aren't you?"

"I guess so."

"Don't sound so regretful." Percy looked at him. "It's 'cute'."

Roan shut his eyes. "Please, I never want to hear that word again."

Percy chuckled. "Sorry. You should hear the way Carla talks about you, though. It's quite entertaining."

Roan said nothing, forcing himself to watch the body parts dissolve. His stomach roiled, but it was emptied. He made a mental note to have a single drink and never 'clean up' on a full stomach, at least until he became desensitized.

As if reading his mind, Percy removed a flask from his jacket pocket and handed it to Roan. "I'm about seventy-proof right now, myself. I can never do this without a few drinks in me. I expect you'll only need one for the first few targets."

"I expect so."

Percy glanced at him. "I notice you've stopped taking jabs at Carla. You've stopped insulting her. You two have gotten rather close as of late, haven't you?"

"She isn't as insipid as I thought she was at first."

"I see." Percy eyed him. "Perhaps you've found the mother figure you've always longed for?"

Roan looked at him in a side glance. "I wouldn't go that far. We're … friends."

"A strong word for you to use," Percy remarked. "I approve. You're starting to come into your own at Division. When you got here, I wouldn't have thought it was possible."

Roan smiled his very subtle, almost nonexistent smile.

"Now if only you could reconcile with Amanda."

Percy made a scoffing, almost choking noise. Percy thought he was going to be ill again, but he was merely sneering.

"That bitch."

"Ah, there's the antisocial sociopath I remember coming to our door."

"I can't stand that woman," Roan said. "I tolerate her for your sake, for the sake of the program, but I can't talk to her. I won't."

"All right, take it easy," Percy said. He loaded the last of Samson's body into the tub of acid. "She reminds you of your mother, doesn't she?"

" …. No comment."

"How very politic of you."

Roan looked at him. "You won't force me to pretend to be her friend, will you? I would hate to think offending her inflated ego could earn me a beating."

"I won't force you," Percy said. "With your new position in Division, you won't need the social grooming the other agents get, or the therapy. I would like you to continue to talk to Carla on occasion, but you don't need Amanda. Just stay out of each other's way."

"Thank you." Roan considered, then decided to push his luck a bit. "You shouldn't trust her, Percy."

"I don't."

"What?"

"I don't trust anyone, Roan," Percy said. He removed his latex gloves and threw them into the tub of acid. "The only two in Division that I slightly believe in are you and Carla. Carla, because she's an idealist and tries to be honest. You, because you're a horrible actor and could never fool me this long if you had a hidden agenda against me."

"I'm a soldier, not a spy."

"Exactly," Percy said. He clapped a hand on Roan's shoulder. "But Amanda? She's a schemer. She may not have the spine to get anywhere on her own, but if she ever wanted to betray me and found a powerful ally to ejaculate his strength into her, she could be a bit of a problem. I have my eye on her. Since you so naturally dislike her, I think you should, too."

"Of course."

"The advantage you have there is, she thinks you're simple," Percy said. "Amanda doesn't get that you choose simplicity out of impatience. Don't do anything to ruin this perception. As long as she sees you as a dumb, rabid dog, she won't see you as a threat, she'll let her guard down a bit."

"I understand." Roan watched the corpse pieces finish coming apart and dissolve. "Percy, do you really … You don't think I'm a dumb, rabid dog, do you?"

"If I did, would I have said you remind me of myself?" Percy said. "You are damaged, I won't deny that. You are completely inept at carrying out a complex lie, too impatient to function in society, too stubborn to learn how to fake it, and you are definitely a sociopath. But stupid? No, Roan, you are certainly not stupid."

Roan looked pleased. Percy patted his shoulder again, evidently having forgotten how sore the man was, and walked him through the final cleaning up process. The vinyl mat was dissolved quickly in the acid, so were the bags and jars the chemicals had been in, the acid was let settle, dumped, and they went through the room to be certain nothing was left behind.

"Never rush," Percy said as they left the building. "The first mistake you make that is discovered by anyone, will be your last. Clear?"

"Yes."

"I'll work up a practice routine for you at Division HQ," Percy said. "You can practice on your own. Let no one see the material. Once you've got it down, make certain all of the material is disposed of adequately. If you succeed at this, I'll make your position official. I think I'll call you a 'Cleaner'. Do well, and you'll head that department. Efficiency is all the job will demand."

Roan nodded, quietly musing, "Cleaner."

"If you do your job adequately, you'll be given status equal to that of an agent," Percy said. "You can have an expenditure account, an apartment outside the compound-"

"No."

Percy glanced at him. "No?"

"I don't want to live outside Division," Roan said. "Don't see the need."

"All right," Percy said slowly. "Well, I'm going to prepare a floor to house you, and anyone else that might take on a similar position. As Division grows, I have no doubt Cleaners will be needed. It's a problem I've been trying to solve for a while. If this works, I'll be quite grateful to you."

"I'll make it work. I promise."

They got to the car and got in, Percy driving again. He gave Roan a long, appreciative look, and realized his mistakes. _I never should have been so tough on him. I shouldn't have tried to force him to fit into the role of agent, it was like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. I hurt him unnecessarily. The first time, he needed that, needed the reality check. The second time was entirely my own fault. And the poor bastard will never even know it. He idolizes me, and I can't afford to be weak in front of him by apologizing. _

Percy reached out and put his hand on the side of Roan's face and neck. "You were perfect tonight."

"I threw up."

"Forget it," Percy said. "You were more than I would have hoped. If you can perform this way on your own, you will _always_ have a place in Division."

Roan leaned forward and kissed him. Percy was taken off guard by the sudden affection, but he allowed it. He could not help but be reminded of a dog licking its master after earning a treat. So, all right, perhaps Roan was a rabid dog … but he was still not a stupid one.


	7. Chapter 7

**7. What Division Is**

Carla did not see Roan until two weeks after his outing as a Cleaner-in-training with Percy. By that time, Roan had already been on one mission on his own, on which he did not throw up at all upon dissolving his target in acid. Percy talked him through it remotely, but found Roan did not need much instruction. In the privacy of his office, Percy smiled broadly. Roan had found his place at Division.

When Roan saw Carla again, he was oddly guilty over the secret he was keeping from her. She beamed at him, as he affirmed for her that he had a job at Division, although he was not an agent. The happier she got, the more annoyed he became.

Finally, prompted by her asking what he was doing, Roan said quietly, evenly, "I'm a Cleaner, Carla. It's a new position at Division."

Carla got the intonation, and her smile faltered. "And … what does that entail? Being a Cleaner?"

"I deal with the agents that fail the program or go rogue."

"Oh." Carla shuffled through her folder anxiously. Her tone was clipped, much too casual. "So, you take care of paperwork, get them situated in another identity, like I did when I worked at the-"

"I kill them, Carla."

The woman froze. Her smile faded like time-lapse photography. She closed the folder, set her hands down on the cover, and brought her eyes to meet Roan's. His glasses were reflecting the overhead light and showed little of his actual gaze.

"Division trains unbalanced young people that have usually already committed murder with the highest grade of combat and weapons training, espionage training, and endows them with the ability to escape any kind of detection, government or otherwise," Roan said measuredly. "We make them into weapons. That's a double-edged sword, Carla, and if it turns against the government, against the system, everything could collapse."

Carla said nothing, only stared at him.

"The Division agents are assets, tools, but without a steady hand to aim them, they're dangerous," Roan said. "Too dangerous to let loose upon an unsuspecting society."

Carla sat back in her chair, covering her mouth with a hand. "Jesus."

"It would be a crime against humanity to set them loose," Roan said. "The agents that are canceled out of the program …. they are, have always been, canceled out of existence. Percy was taking care of it personally, but the demand has gotten heavy, as Division expands. There is going to be a team dedicated to cleaning up the fallout of program failures, and I am going to head it."

"Cleaners."

"Yes." Roan cocked his head inquisitively. "You don't seem surprised."

"I wish I was." Carla stood, smoothing down her skirt as if she was wiping her hands of some dirty substance. She hugged her arms to her chest. "I wish to God I was surprised, but you're right, Roan. I'm not."

Roan looked up at her silently. Carla continued to surprise him by how savvy she could be.

"I got the insinuation the moment Percy spoke those words in front of me," Carla said. "I didn't want to believe it. I forced myself not to. But I knew. I know him, I know the system, I know the stakes."

"Most of us candidates for Division would have died, anyway," Roan pointed out. "I was on death row in a military prison, and most of the others were on death row in state prison, federal prison, or sentenced to life in prison, at the very least. This is …. a chance after all the chances have run out."

Carla turned on him. "You think I don't know that, Roan?" she asked loudly; it was the first time she had ever raised her voice with any patient. "I started this damn thing! I was the one in the prisons, in the system, maneuvering these people into last chances! I thought the whole fucking thing up!"

Roan refrained from comment. Carla paced, rubbed a hand over her face, looked at the ceiling.

"My God," she said, as if He were actually in the chic ceiling fan. "I started this."

"You've done good, Carla." Roan stood, came over to her awkwardly. He did not quite know what to do with her grief. "I would be dead now. I owe my life to you, and to Percy."

"Is this better than death, Roan?" Carla asked, looking up at him. "Is it?"

Without hesitation, "Yes."

"Even if Percy has made you into this?" Carla said quietly. She shook her head. "You were misguided, but there's good in you. I thought Percy could use that. But all he's used is your instinct to kill. He's sharpened your paranoia, encouraged your antisocial behavior, and made you into a thoughtless, unconscionable assassin."

"Carla." Roan put both hands lightly on her shoulders and bent to look her directly in the eyes. "I was a murderer when I got here. This isn't a reform school."

"I know, I just-" Carla put a hand on the side of his face. "I do not believe that is all you ever could have been. Just know that."

"You don't find me repulsive?"

"No, I don't," Carla said simply. "I never could, Roan."

Roan thought the poor woman was still somewhat delusional, but a part of him was warmed by her seeing something good in him. Carla touched his face, moved past him. He wondered if her professionalism might ever slip, as even the stoic Percy's had. He found it a bit amusing that these people were so attracted to him, as his cold-blooded demeanor had, until Division, always had the opposite effect on people.

_This is a place for killers, _he thought. It was a comforting thought.

"What has Division become?"

Roan turned to her. Carla was standing before the photograph of the desert flower.

"Is it a last chance, really?" she asked, staring at the picture. "A last chance for society's condemned, neglected, rejected, misunderstood? Or is it a way to train killers to become perfect killers? Is it a machine that chews up raw material and spits out death? What is it, Roan?"

Roan shook his head. He knew precisely what Division was, but he kept his thoughts to himself. She needed to figure this all out for herself.

"I used to be so sure of what my purpose was, and then of what Division's purpose was," Carla went on. "It's all … left me behind."

"No, Carla," Roan said. "It's just grown. You have to grow with it."

Carla turned back to him. "How do I know I want to?"

"You have to answer that."

Carla licked her lips. She paced and then sank onto her couch. "I guess I do."

Roan sat beside her. "For the record, I believe in Division. It's a hard truth, but not a new one. Throughout history, there have always been organizations like this, only not as polished, not as perfect. History isn't written by the newspaper-cover heroes the world sees. You worked in a prison. You know the machinations behind events, the truths that go unheard. You know the real world that teems beneath the calm, flat surface the public sees."

Carla searched Roan's eyes through his glasses.

"You knew better than to try to be a voice for those truths, because you knew you would go unheard," Roan went on. It was the longest he had spoken to her. "You took action. You broke the law and stabbed the system in the back to save the people left behind by it all. To save us."

Carla wiped tears from the corners of her eyes.

"Maybe it doesn't always work out," Roan said. "But I am grateful to you."

"Roan." Carla laughed, wiping the rest of the tears. "See? You can be sweet."

Roan smiled, though it was a bit tight. Carla had a knack for finding the most incongruous adjectives to describe him: cute, sweet- what was he, a poodle? She was trying to compensate for his lack of identifiable human characteristics, no doubt, but it was still irksome.

"I have a lot to think about," Carla said quietly. "I know you won't mind our session being cut short."

Roan snorted in agreement.

"Percy told me that you have no obligation to continue any therapy sessions with either myself or Amanda," Carla said. "I … I hope you'll at least still talk to me, on the record, or off."

"I'll try, Carla."

"That's all I ask."

Roan stood, went to the door.

"As for Division."

Roan stopped, did not turn back.

"As for Division," continued Carla, "I … It may be premature, but I … I still believe in Division. I do know that none of this could be done without sacrifice. Hell, I suppose I've always known it. Don't tell Percy yet, but I think that I am willing to make those sacrifices."

"It would mean a lot to us all, if you continued the program, Carla."

"Can I ask you something, Roan?"

"Sure."

"What is Division to you?"

"To me?" Roan met her gaze. "Survival."

Carla smiled, nodded. "Yeah." She looked back at that favorite photograph of hers, the flower struggling its way through the arid desert. "… Survival."

Roan left her with that thought. He hoped she would come to terms with it all. He had done all he could for her. If she couldn't, well ….

He supposed someone would someday have to clean her.

**. END .**


End file.
